


Phobias

by RascalJoy (DarkQuill)



Category: Batman (Comics), Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: (sorta) - Freeform, Angst, DaddyBats, Family, Fluff, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Origins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-06-08 20:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6871546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkQuill/pseuds/RascalJoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was stupid. It was irrational. Dick knew that. There was no good reason for him to be afraid; he had been doing this for most of his young life. And yet...</p><p>Five times Dick fell, and the one time Robin didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Cross posted from Fanfiction.net.
> 
> Original publish date: 5-30-14
> 
> So this is basically a "Five times he couldn't, and the one time he could" sort of story. I've read lots of these, and TOTALLY love the idea, so I thought I'd do one of my own.
> 
> Now this is based on a head canon of mine that Dick would be hesitant to get back in the air after watching his parents fall to their deaths. Not because he's afraid of flying, but because he's afraid of the alternative: falling. I'm pretty sure something like this has been done before, but hey, here's my spin on it.

_Gotham City_  
_April 14, 13:04 EDT_

It was stupid. It was irrational. Dick knew that. There was no good reason for him to be afraid; he had been doing this for most of his young life. And yet...

His fingers flexed around the white bar in his hands, sweat forcing its way through the protective layer of chalk on his palms. He'd checked the lines. He'd checked them twice. He stared down over the twenty foot drop below him; in all reality, a very low height compared to what his parents used to do, and they didn't even have a safety net.

His parents.

Dick's breath hitched as their flailing bodies appeared in his mind's eye, falling, falling, falling, crashing into the hard packed ground below, their limbs twisted unnaturally as their dead, glassy eyes stared up at him.

He let go of the trapeze like it had caught fire, stumbling away away from the edge until he bumped into the wall on the other side of the platform. Anything to get away from that drop. He sank to the ground, unable to meet the eyes of the man standing a few feet to his left.

"I—I—," Dick stammered, struggling to stop his lips from quivering as tears clouded his vision.

The man stepped toward him, and Dick involuntarily flinched, half expecting to be scolded for his cowardice. But the man just knelt down beside him, a large hand lifting his small chin up until Dick found himself looking up into the dark eyes of Bruce Wayne.

"I know," Bruce said softly. "It's okay, Dick."

Against Dick's will, the tears began to fall. He sniffled softly, wiping a small hand over his eyes and getting chalk on his face in the process. He hated showing weakness in front of the man who had taken him in, hated the fact that he couldn't seem to do what had used to come as easily as breathing to him just a few weeks ago: flying like a bird. He could almost hear his mother's voice, crooning softly to him, calling him her little robin...

Despite his best efforts, Dick began to sob, the pain of losing his parents just thirteen days ago still fresh in his heart.

Bruce hesitated for only a moment before pulling the distraught boy awkwardly onto his lap.

Dick burrowed his face into Bruce's chest, clutching the fabric of the man's sweater tightly in his fingers as he tried to control the heartbroken sounds erupting from his mouth. Why'd they have to die? What did Dick ever do wrong to deserve this? It took a long time, longer than Dick would have liked, but finally his sobs calmed to the occasional sniffle.

He pulled his face out of the man's shirt, now soaked with Dick's snot and tears. A wave of fear rolled through him; what if the man was angry that Dick had ruined his shirt? What if he would send him back to the orphanage? What if—

"Are you ready to go back down?" a gruff voice asked.

Dick glanced up, his red-rimmed blue eyes still twinkling with tears. He was startled to find that the man didn't look angry in the slightest; in fact his expression seemed...sympathetic. In the few days he had lived with this man, he hadn't seen him show hardly any emotion; he'd begun to think of him as a brick wall: silent, unmoving, and grey.

"I—I'm sorry," Dick whispered. "I didn't mean to ruin your shirt."

The man raised an eyebrow, seemingly surprised at his statement. "I've got plenty more."

There was a slightly awkward silence while Dick attempted to wipe his dripping nose on his unitard.

"It's about dinner time. Alfred will be waiting," Bruce said, moving to stand up.

Dick quickly scrambled off his lap, not wanting to push his luck too much. He still wasn't sure what the proper way was to act around the billionaire, and Bruce didn't seem entirely sure how to deal with him either. It was clear that Bruce had no experience raising a child, and Dick didn't have any close up experience with what his dad had called "city folk." All the same, Dick was grateful the man had taken him in; he just wished that he was more like his father.

Dick watched apprehensively as Bruce began to climb down the ladder bolted to the side of the platform.

Bruce seemed to sense his hesitance, stopping partway down to look up at the young face staring down at him, eyes wide with fear. "Come along, now," he said, trying to sound as gentle as he could. "I'll be right here to catch you if you fall."

Dick paused for a second longer, than cautiously swung his leg over the edge and onto the top rung of the ladder. He slowly began to climb down, flinching every time the rungs creaked under his weight, checking behind him occasionally to make sure Bruce was still under him. When his feet finally touched the ground, he let out a shaky breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see Bruce standing over him, as impassive as always, the rare display of emotion already a distant memory.

"Let's go get you cleaned up," Bruce said.

Dick looked down at the soaked front of his unitard, reflexively brushing his hands over it in an attempt to wipe it off, but only succeeding in adding chalk to the mess. "Sorry," he whispered again.

A heavy hand placed itself on his shoulder and Dick flinched.

"Nothing to be sorry about, kid."

Dick allowed himself to be steered out of the vast gym, taking one last look at the lonely trapeze still hanging above the platform before Bruce closed the door behind them and it was lost to sight.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cross posted from Fanfiction.net.
> 
> Original publish date: 6-6-14
> 
> Just so you know, I don't mean to make Dick out as a crybaby. I'll say that right now. But no matter how strong we know our little bird is, I believe that it would take a little while before he springs back after watching his parents plummet to their deaths. Just want to make that clear!
> 
> Now, here's the official chapter one!

_1._

_One week later..._

_Gotham City  
April 21, 17:45 EDT_

Dick sat on the counter in the mansion's vast kitchen, swinging his legs gently as he absentmindedly crunched on an apple, watching Alfred cook dinner.

Dick liked the old butler. He always found time to play with Dick, telling him stories about the troublesome boy that had grown up to be Bruce Wayne, always having a plate of fresh-baked cookies and a glass of milk waiting for him when he came home from school. Alfred made the best cookies.

"Alfred?" he called, cocking his head to the side as something occurred to him.

"Yes, Master Richard?" the butler asked, his quaint British accent causing Dick to giggle quietly.

"Stop calling me that," he protested. "My name's Dick. And I'm not a master."

"Whatever you say, Master Dick," the butler replied, amusement glittering in his eyes.

Dick wrinkled his nose at the old butler, knowing that no amount of arguing on his part would change Alfred's mind. "Fine. I was just wondering where Bruce went last night."

Alfred tensed for a moment, then relaxed just as quickly. But not before Dick caught his mistake. "What do you mean, Master Dick?" Dick could hear the slight wariness in the butler's tone, and his curiosity was instantly piqued.

"I woke up to hear footsteps in the hallway," Dick said, which was only half true. He had been woken up by one of his frequent nightmares and heard the footsteps, but he wasn't about to tell Alfred that.

Alfred considered his question, thinking carefully about his answer. "Master Bruce has trouble sleeping," he said finally. "He often gets up and walks around to calm himself down again." Not entirely a lie.

Alfred turned back to the pot simmering over the stove, clearly indicating that this conversation was over.

Dick cocked his head to the side, studying the spotless back of Alfred's suit. Alfred's answer had only served to increase his suspicion that Bruce was hiding something. During the short time Dick had lived here, he had all ready noticed a lot of strange things that he couldn't account for: Bruce showing up downstairs in the mornings with mysterious bruises and other injuries, the way he seemed to disappear for hours on end even though Dick had never seen him leave the house, and the strict training schedule the man kept in the gym. Now Dick had mysterious late night walks to add to his list. An idea began to flicker in the back of his mind, but before he could pursue it, an irritated harrumph came from across the kitchen.

Dick looked up curiously to see Alfred standing on a bar stool, his arm stretched high over his head as he tried to reach a large bag of flour on a high shelf. However, despite his best efforts, the butler's hand scrabbled uselessly almost a full six inches below his target. The butler sighed in frustration, climbing from his perch and wiping a hand over his brow.

"I knew I shouldn't have asked Master Bruce to place the extra flour up there," Alfred huffed. He turned to Dick, an apologetic look on his face. "I'm sorry, Master Dick, but the cookies will have to wait until Master Bruce returns."

Dick considered the offending bag of flour as Alfred walked off, muttering something about searching the pantry. His eyes cast around the kitchen, taking in the bar stool, the shelf on which the flour rested, and the tall fridge just to the right of the shelf. He really wanted those cookies.

Dick waited until Alfred had disappeared into the massive pantry on the other side of the room, then lowered himself carefully off of the island, throwing his apple core into the trash can. He backed up a few steps, mentally planning his route. He took a deep breath, wiping his hands on his jeans.

Then he shot forward, taking the ten steps toward the bar stool as fast as he could. He launched himself into the air, doing a back handspring off of the seat and flipping upright in the air, latching his fingers onto the top of the fridge. He clambered on top, waiting just long enough to make sure the fridge wouldn't fall over before running across it and leaping across the five foot gap between him and the shelf. He landed on the narrow piece of wood, which was just wide enough for him to stand with his feet together and six inches to spare. He snatched the bag of flour, grinning in triumph; until he realized that there was no way he could drag a twenty-five pound bag of flour down to the ground. Wait a second...

He started in shock. He glanced over the edge, gasping in horror as he realized he was now fifteen feet in the air. His knees began to shake, and he fell to a crouch, too terrified to remain standing. He lurched forward, clutching at the bag of flour like a lifeline. The bag of flour didn't appreciate that.

It listed forward, and he screeched in terror as it pitched over the edge, taking Dick with it.

Everything seemed to go in slow motion. This was it. He was going to smash into the ground and die just like his parents. He briefly wondered if it would hurt, and if so, how long he would live. He hoped Alfred would appreciate the flour.

Suddenly, Dick heard a shout of surprise, a rush of footsteps, and he landed hard on something warm and rough, the air whooshing out of him. Spots danced before his eyes, and he gasped as he struggled to regain his breath. He dimly heard a loud thud off to his right, followed by the feeling of dust settling over him, filling his all ready fatigued lungs. He began to hack and cough, struggling to get the offending stuff out of his air passages. Whatever he had landed on moved, and something pressed a cloth to his mouth and nose to shield them from the dust. When the spots faded and he could breathe again, he found himself staring up at the concerned and very white face of Bruce Wayne.

Dick blinked slowly. "Did you die too?"

Dark eyes blinked at him from under the mask of white, then the man shook his head like the dogs back at the circus after a bath, sending the white dust flying everywhere.

Dick decided that it looked a lot like flour.

Footsteps echoed from the pantry, and Alfred appeared in the doorway. When he saw them, his eyes widened, his usually composed features taking on a shocked expression. "What on earth happened in here?"

Dick finally took a look at his surroundings: everything was covered in a thin veil of white dust, a big pile of the stuff on the floor with a now empty flour sack lying in the middle.

Dick glanced curiously up at Bruce, who now looked more like a ghost with the flour still covering him. "Are we all dead?"

Bruce arched an eyebrow. "No."

Dick scrunched his eyebrows together. "Then why is everything white?"

"That would be the flour," Alfred said stiffly. Then, something dawned on him. "The flour... Master Richard, did you try to retrieve the flour from the shelf?"

Dick looked up, just able to discern the outline of the shelf in the cloud of flour that hung in the air. "Yes?" he said uncertainly.

"He did," Bruce announced. "I walked in just in time to see him and the bag fall."

Only then did Dick realize that he was very much alive. He blinked owlishly at Bruce, the realization that he had come very close to falling to his death, just like his parents, sinking in.

He began to cry, tears wending trails through the flour that covered his cheeks, thick drops landing on his lap and rolling off onto the floor.

"I—I just wanted to get the flour for Alfred," he whimpered, before breaking down completely.

He had almost died. After all that effort to keep his feet on the ground, to avoid a fate like his parents', and he'd almost blown it trying to get a sack of flour.

Bruce shifted underneath him, sending another cloud of dust into the air. Both males began to cough as, once again, the flour filled their nostrils.

Alfred hurried to their sides, dragging the hacking pair to their feet and out of the kitchen, sending even more flour swirling up around them.

By the time they exited the affected room, all were coughing their lungs out and covered in a fine layer of white.

Alfred began to brush them off, Dick coughing and hiccuping between sobs.

"I'm sorry," he cried miserably. "P-please don't s-send me away."

Bruce and Alfred looked at each other, surprised.

Bruce knelt down to Dick's level, placing his hands on the small boy's shoulder's. "Now why would I do that?"

Dick sniffed, trying to stem his tears. "Because—because I made a mess. And—and Tommy said—" He stuttered to a halt, unable to voice his thoughts.

"What did Tommy say?" Bruce said gently, not having a clue who Tommy was.

"He—he said—that if I didn't behave myself, you would send me right back to the juvie," Dick mumbled. He looked up, his blue eyes reflecting such hurt Bruce felt his heart melt right through his shoes. "Please don't send me back to the juvie. The boys there...don't like me very much."

Oh. So Tommy must have been someone Dick had met during the few days he'd spent at the Juvenile Detention Center before Bruce got the guardian paperwork sorted out.

Bruce pulled the still flour-caked boy into a hug, rubbing circles on his back. "I won't send you away, Dickie. Not ever. You're staying right here with me."

Dick stared at him, wide-eyed. "You're—you're not mad?"

Bruce gave the boy a small smile. "Of course I'm mad. You just ruined my kitchen and my second best suit. But that doesn't mean I'm going to send you away."

Dick's face was a mixture of relief and confusion.

"But you want to know what matters the most?" Bruce said.

Dick looked at him curiously. "What?"

"You didn't get hurt," Bruce said.

Dick looked surprised. "Oh."

"I'll go get the broom," Alfred said, walking off like a pale specter down the hall.

Bruce and Dick remained in awkward silence for a moment, neither quite sure what to do.

"Why do we fall, Dick?" Bruce said, almost without thinking.

Dick's face scrunched up adorably as he thought about the question. "Because gravity decided it was time to come down," he announced.

Bruce's mouth quirked up in a smile as he let loose a short bark of laughter. "That's one way of thinking of it. Another—"

At that moment, Alfred returned with a broom and Bruce started, looking almost embarrassed.

The butler gave him an incredulous look, then continued on into the kitchen, broom held at the ready. "Might I suggest that you get yourself and the young master cleaned up, Master Bruce?" he called from the doorway. "Dinner should be ready within an hour, depending on how long it takes to sweep up this flour."

Bruce hauled himself to his feet, leaning down and pulling Dick up to stand beside him. "Actually, I think we'll help you, Alfred." He disappeared down the hall, returning with a dustpan and, for whatever reason, a feather duster. He passed the dustpan to Dick, placing a hand on his shoulder and guiding him toward the kitchen. "You hold the pan, and I'll sweep the flour in," Bruce ordered.

Dick nodded his understanding.

Bruce stopped just outside the doorway, taking a deep breath as he gazed into the impenetrable cloud of flour in the room beyond. "Are you ready for battle, soldier?"

Dick looked up in surprise. A grin slowly spread over his features when he saw the mischievous light dancing in Bruce's dark eyes. He stood up straight, saluting with his empty hand. "Yes, sir!"

Bruce hefted the feather duster. "Charge!"

And together, the two barreled into the flour storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters will get progressively longer.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cross posted from Fanfiction.net.
> 
> Original publish date: 6-13-14

  _2._

_Five days later..._

_Gotham City_  
_April 26, 10:24 EDT_

Dick stood nervously at the entrance to the Gotham Elementary playground, slightly unsure of what to do. He fiddled with the hem of his T-shirt, watching as kids ran around the play structure. Dick had never been to a "typical playground" before. Growing up in the circus, he spent all his spare time practicing his acrobatics and swinging on a trapeze. He had had no need of a play set when anything and everything was his personal play place. Well, except for Mr. Haly's trailer. And Peter's throwing knives. And Mr. Zorro's magic hat. And...

A familiar hand placed itself on his shoulder and Bruce's deep voice broke through his thoughts. "What's wrong?"

Dick shrugged, twisting his shirt around his fingers. "I've never really played with... _normal_ kids before."

Bruce chuckled, the comforting sound making Dick feel minutely better. "I'm sure you'll be fine. The playground is a good place to make friends during the summer. Don't you want to get to know the kids who'll be in your class at school?"

Dick wrinkled his nose in disgust, scuffing his shoe on the ground as tears welled up in his eyes. "I've never been to school before," he announced. "Mommy and Daddy and the rest of the troupe homeschooled me."

Bruce hesitated. He squeezed the boy's shoulder awkwardly. "You'll be fine," he repeated.

"Hey, Bruce!"

Dick glanced up to see a man striding toward them, a wide smile on his face. He appeared to be around Bruce's age, maybe older, with slightly greying red hair and a bushy mustache. His eyes twinkled merrily in the sunlight, and his smile warmed Dick down to his toes.

Bruce returned the smile, reaching out to shake the man's hand. "Commissioner Gordon! It's good to see you. How's it going down at the station?"

The man shrugged. "Eh, it's going." Then he caught sight of Dick, and his smile softened. He knelt before him, his kindly eyes sparkling. "And you must be Richard."

"Dick," Dick corrected reflexively.

At the man's surprised expression, Bruce quickly clarified: "He prefers to be called Dick."

"Oh," the Commissioner said, his features relaxing. He smiled again, crinkles forming in the corners of his eyes. "Well, hello, Dick. How're you liking Gotham so far?"

Dick considered the question. "It's nice," he said finally.

The man ruffled the boy's hair. "I'm glad to hear it." He stood up, brushing the dirt off of his khakis. "Well, a recent police report told me that someone was getting a little lonely being cooped up in that big old mansion for so long with only two stuffy old fogies to play with."

Bruce frowned. "I'm still younger than you, Jim."

The Commissioner looked at Dick, jerking a thumb over at Bruce. "So he keeps saying." He covered his mouth with his hand, leaning down and lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Sometimes I think he's got bats in his belfry."

Dick grinned at the man, giggling slightly. He decided that he liked this Commissioner Gordon. He reminded him of Mr. Haly.

Gordon straightened again, smiling innocently at Bruce's scowling expression. "Anyway, I thought you could use a playmate." He turned toward the playground, raising a cupped hand to his mouth. "Barbara! Could you come here for a moment, please?"

Dick curiously looked to the playground, searching for the person Mr. Gordon had been calling. A few of the children had looked up minutely at the initial shouting, but all had returned to whatever they were doing soon after.

"Hi!"

Dick's head jerked around in surprise. He gasped. Standing in front of him was a girl—a very pretty girl. Her fiery red hair shimmered in the midmorning sun, her turquoise eyes as bright as her gleaming white smile.

She stuck her hand out to him. "My name's Barbara. What's yours?"

Dick realized he was staring like an idiot. He closed his mouth quickly, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks as he shook her hand. "Dick," he murmured, staring at his toes.

Barbara's smile widened. "Well, hi, Dick. You wanna come play with me? I managed to save a couple of swings."

Dick gaped at her. He looked uncertainly up at Bruce. To his surprise, there was a small smile on his guardian's face.

Bruce gave a slight nod, encouraging him to accept.

Dick turned back to Barbara. "Um...sure."

The blinding smile returned to her face. "Great!" She snatched Dick's hand again, and before he could protest, was dragging him across the playground to the currently empty swings. "We have to hurry before someone takes them!"

Dick allowed himself to be dragged along, missing the knowing smiles passed between the men behind him. He looked around in awe as they passed various play structures, the brightly colored plastic and metal glinting merrily in the warm sun. Kids swung around on various bars that looked like horizontal ladders, sliding down long ramps that sometimes curled or bumped along the way down. He stumbled to a stop as the girl pulling him skidded to a halt in front of what Dick assumed was a swing. He studied the structure, deciding it looked a lot like a low, thick, curved trapeze.

Barbara released his hand in favor of latching onto the chain on one of the swings, turning around and hopping into the seat. She patted the swing next to her. "You can have this one."

Dick hesitantly turned around, sitting down on the somewhat flimsy material. The chains grew taught, the seat dipping with his weight and bending into a neat U shape. He examined the chains he hung by, noting the shiny metal and lack of rust. The seat material seemed sturdy enough despite its flexibility, supporting his weight easily. Satisfied that it wouldn't fall out from under him, he glanced over at Barbara, wondering what to do next. To his surprise, the swing next to him was gone. "Barb—"

"Whee!"

Dick yelped in surprise as Barbara came into his view, going backwards through the air. He turned, watching as the girl's momentum ran out and she paused momentarily midair before sticking her legs straight out and swinging forward and up, seemingly trying to touch the sky.

"Come on, dummy!" she cried. "Don't just sit there! Swing with me!"

Dick studied the swinging girl, watching as she went back and forth, back and forth. It seemed to have something to do with how she moved her legs...

Suddenly, Barbara stuck her feet down, scraping the ground with her shoes. After a couple more passes, she planted her feet into the mulch, bringing herself to a complete stop. She turned to stare at him, eyebrows furrowed. "What's wrong? Haven't you ever seen a swing before?"

Heat crept up Dick's cheeks. "Not really," he admitted.

An incredulous look appeared on Barbara's face. "Seriously? Your parents never took you to a playground?"

Dick studied the legs of his jeans, rubbing a finger against the rough fabric. "No."

Barbara frowned, as if that information didn't line up.

Dick waited with baited breath, silently willing her not to pursue the matter.

After a moment, her expression cleared. "I suppose I'll just have to show you, then."

Dick blinked in confusion. "Show me what?"

"How to pump a swing, you dummy," Barbara giggled. She slowly backed up, keeping herself firmly in the seat, stopping when she couldn't go back any farther. Then she lifted her feet from the ground and swung forward, her legs straight out in front of her. It was an admittedly small arc compared to how high she'd been going earlier, and she quickly lost speed. She bent her knees, leaning forward and pushing the swing back. "It's all about building up momentum," Barbara explained, continuing to pump herself back and forth. "The more you give it, the higher you go."

"Like on a trapeze?" Dick asked, a strange little shiver running up his spine.

She turned to face the still-grounded Dick, eyebrows raised. "Yeah. Something like that. Now you try."

Dick walked backwards, mimicking what he'd seen Barbara do a moment before. The chains grew taught beneath his fingers, his feet just touching the ground. Then he jumped up, allowing the swing to carry him forward. He began to pump, struggling to catch up with the rapidly ascending Barbara.

"You got it!" Barbara called down encouragingly. "Just keep going."

Back and forth, back and forth. A small thrill of excitement vibrated through him as he began to gain altitude, coming level with Barbara. He laughed excitedly, the sound carrying throughout the park as he swooped up and down, his feet stretching up into seemingly endless blue above him.

"So," Barbara said casually as they swung side-by-side. "Where _are_ you from? I know Bruce is your adopted father—"

"Guardian," Dick corrected. He glanced at her suspiciously. "How'd you know that?"

She waved a hand dismissively. "My dad and Bruce have known each other since forever. My dad told me about you." She glanced at him curiously. "Where are you from?" she repeated.

Dick turned and continued pumping, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. "The circus."

Barbara's eyes widened. "Wow. Really?"

"Yep."

Barbara raised an eyebrow, disbelief etched in her features. "You're pulling my leg," she decided.

Dick scowled at her. "Am not. I did trapeze."

Barbara's eyebrow went higher, her lips curling up in a smirk. "Prove it."

A jolt of fear shot through him, and he could swear he could see his parents falling beneath his swinging legs. He swallowed thickly. "I'll pass."

Barbara gave him a strange look. "Okay, then. I would have thought a circus kid would love to show off."

Dick shrugged, keeping his eyes glued on his pumping feet.

They continued swinging in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

"Hey," Barbara called suddenly. "Stop for a moment."

Reluctantly, Dick dug his feet into the ground as he'd seen her do, jerking himself to a stop. He frowned at her. "What?"

Mischievousness sparkled briefly in Barbara's eyes, disappearing almost as fast as it appeared. "Would you like me to push you?"

Dick cocked his head to the side, confused. "What?"

"Push you on the swing, silly," Barbara said. "You'll go much higher that way."

Dick hesitated, a small spark of fear burning in the back of his mind. But the thrill of flying through the air, the excitement from swooping like a bird in the sky overwhelmed him, urging him to go to even greater heights. "Yes, please," he said eagerly.

Barbara smiled almost evilly, jumping off her swing and coming up behind him. "Hold on," she warned, grabbing the swing and pulling him off the ground. He felt hands shove him in the back, propelling him forward. With every push, he felt himself swing a little higher. He began to feel almost weightless as the height increased, going much higher than he'd been going on his own power. "Um, Barbara?" he said hesitantly. "Can you slow down?"

"Oh come on," Barbara chided. "You're not chickening out now, are you? I thought you did trapeze."

Dick gritted his teeth, gripping the chains so tightly his knuckles turned white. As he swung forward, all he could see was sky, giving the illusion that he was air born. His bottom came minutely off the seat before slamming back down again as he swung backward.

Dick clutched at the chains, blood pounding through his ears as he found himself facing the ground, the links once again going slack before tightening as he began his forward curve. Sweat erupted on his palms, his fingers suddenly feeling numb and frozen. "Stop!" he cried, his breath wheezing through his lips as his grip began to slip.

"Just one more," Barbara insisted, shoving him hard in the back.

He crested forward, rising to the peak of his forward climb...and the chains slipped through his fingers. Terror tore through him as he actually flew through the air, his hands clawing for nonexistent handholds. Instinct took over as he began to fall downwards, turning a forward somersault and twisting midair so he was facing the swing set and a horrified Barbara Gordon. He landed on his feet, his knees bending to absorb the impact. He sprang upright, his arms spread habitually toward his "audience."

Every person in the area, parent and child alike, had their eyes on him.

Dick lowered his arms, slightly unnerved by their wide-eyed stares.

A slow clapping sound echoed in the silence, and he turned to see Barbara approaching him. She whistled appreciatively, smiling shakily. "Well, what do you know. You _are_ a circus kid."

Bruce and Commissioner Gordon came running up to him, worry and amazement etched on their faces.

"Dick, are you okay?" Bruce asked, crouching before his ward.

Dick stared at him. Then, without warning, he flung himself into his guardian's arms, gripping the back of the man's suit tightly. His entire body trembled in shock, but Bruce was surprised and relieved to see that no tears came from the young boy's eyes. "Fine," Dick whispered.

After a moment, Bruce carefully pulled away, a small smile quirking at the corners of his lips. "That's the first time I've seen you flip around since nearly a month ago."

Dick blinked, realization dawning in his baby blues. "Oh." This was the first time he'd performed any form of aerial acrobatics since his parents' "accident." He realized with surprise that even though he had been scared out of his mind...he'd actually reveled in the freedom as he shot through the sky.

"I'm so sorry," Barbara babbled as she reached them. "I didn't know your grip was slipping. I should've known to stop, you could've gotten hurt, you—"

"It's okay," Dick interrupted. He turned to look at her over his shoulder, a small smile on his face. "Circus kid, remember?"

Barbara looked at him in surprise, a grin slowly stretching across her face. "Yeah."

Just then, something chirped. Bruce reached into his pocket, peeking at his cellphone. He glanced at his watch and frowned. Replacing the phone in his pocket, he placed both hands on the boy's shoulders. "Listen, Dick, I've got to go to a meeting now. Is it okay if I leave you here with Mr. Gordon for a little while? Or would you rather go home with Alfred?"

Dick stared at the Commissioner, a thoughtful expression on his face. Suddenly, he brightened. "Will Barbara stay too?"

Jim smiled. "Of course, sport."

"Then I want to stay," Dick decided. A sheepish expression came over his face as his guardian raised an eyebrow. "Um, if that's okay with you."

Bruce clapped him lightly on the back. "Of course, chum." He got to his feet, gesturing toward the now beaming Barbara. "Now go have fun."

Dick turned toward her, a somewhat devilish grin on his face. "You _so_ owe me, Babs."

Now it was Barbara's turn to quirk an eyebrow. "Babs?"

"Your new nickname," Dick announced, running forward and snatching her hand. "Get used to it. Now come on, let's do that horizontal ladder thingie."

"How about 'monkey bars,' Bird Boy?" Babs suggested.

"Yeah, those," Dick agreed. He paused. _"Bird Boy?"_

"Your new nickname," Barbara cried, sprinting ahead of him. "Get used to it. Race you!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You wouldn't BELIEVE how hard it is to try and explain what a swing looks like and how it works. It's one of those things you never would expect to describe, you know? :P Sorry if it's weird that Dick has never seen a swing before, or doesn't know how to operate one. In my head, he practically lived in the circus camp. Kind of one of those situations where you go and see a lot of places, but don't really explore. I just thought it would be cute. Sorry if it bothered you :P


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cross posted from Fanfiction.net.
> 
> Original publish date: 12-26-14
> 
> (P.S. I realize it was kinda silly that Dick couldn't swing on a swing, but I figured that there was enough difference between sitting on something with his feet still on the ground and actually flying 100% through empty air to differentiate the two.)

  _3._

_Five days later..._

_Gotham City_  
_May 1, 01:01 EDT_

"Dick, be careful," Bruce warned, glancing almost worriedly at an antique vase in the corner.

"I will!" Dick chirped, giggling as he pushed off the floor with his hands, managing to flip twice before sticking a landing just short of the vase. "I'm a professional, remember?"

Bruce gave him a small smile, but Dick also noticed his eyebrows were creased, the line of his lips tight. Before he could consider it further, another voice cut into his train of thought.

"Well, I'll say," Alfred cried. "What do we have here?"

Dick rotated into a handstand, craning his neck to see the butler from his upside down position. He gave the man a toothy grin, swinging his legs up and around to land on his feet, only to tumble backwards into a cartwheel and landing once more on his hands.

It felt so good to just _move_. He hadn't flown in so so long... But he couldn't fly. Not without falling. So floor routines would have to do.

He giggled quietly as he shoved off the floor and into the air, twirling three forward flips this time before landing gracefully on the couch. Before his feet even had time to sink into the cushions, he was off again, jumping from the couch and kicking his feet off the wall before skidding to a stop on the floor.

"Master Richard, please refrain from using the silken furniture as a trampoline," Alfred said coolly, carefully placing a tray of tea things onto the table at Bruce's left elbow. "The cushions really aren't built for such strenuous activities."

Dick just managed to keep his feet grounded. "Sorry, Alfred."

His fingers twitched, his eyes shooting back and forth around the room as he took in all of the furniture—all of the potential handholds and the places where he could get the longest possible airtime before inevitably coming back to mother earth.

It was impossible to stay still. There was no way Dick could manage it.

"Your tea, Master Bruce," the butler announced, holding out a cup and saucer to the billionaire.

Bruce nodded absently as he reached out to take the cup. "Thanks, Alfred."

The man was entirely unprepared, however, for the intense heat radiating from the crockery. He gave a low grunt as the scaldingly hot surface touched his skin, his fingers leaping from the vessel as if it was on fire—and judging from the enormous amounts of steam coming from the top, it might have been—and the drink went crashing to the ground.

Bruce jerked forward in his chair, reaching out a hand just in time to catch the cup before it could hit the floor. Unfortunately, the sudden stop splattered most of the contents anyway.

Bruce winced as some of the hot liquid splashed over his wrist, and he just managed not to drop the cup. "Ouch."

"My goodness," Alfred said, raising an eyebrow at his older ward. "It seems someone has quite the buttery fingers tonight."

Bruce looked up at him sheepishly. "Sorry, Alfred."

"It's quite all right, Master Bruce," Alfred sighed, stooping down to mop up the mess with a dishclothe he'd pulled seemingly from nowhere. "I should have checked the temperature before deeming it ready to hand to you. It was my fault entirely."

The butler glanced up at the man who still sat in the chair, watching him sop up the mess with blank eyes.

Alfred cleared his throat loudly, causing the man to jump slightly in his seat. "Shouldn't you be putting some ice on that burn?"

Bruce blinked. "Oh. Right. Of course, Alfred." He glanced across the room at Dick, who seemed somehow fascinated with the old armchair at Bruce's left. "I'll be right back."

Dick cocked his head at the giant stuffed almost-sofa on the other side of the room, calculating its height and distance from the ground and himself. "Okay," he called absentmindedly as his guardian left the room.

A quick glance showed him the wooden coffee table at his right. If Dick could kick off the end of the table, he might just manage to pull a quadruple before he hit the chair.

A quadruple. His heart stuttered with excitement. The Flying Grayson's signature move. Dick had been so close to learning it before the...accident. Maybe he could still pull it off.

The temptation was absolutely overwhelming.

A small voice piped up in the back of his head: _Alfred said no more jumping on the furniture_.

But the bigger part of his mind screamed at him to go for it. He was a month older now. He could land a quadruple.

Dick licked his lips in concentration, mentally calculating his flight path. He backed up a couple steps, fixing his eyes on the wooden coffee table. _Three... Two... Go!_

He shot forward, pushing off the floor in a small jump that carried him onto the coffee table. His feet didn't have time to plant themselves before he launched himself off the table, leaping out into the air. He flipped one, two, three, f—

Dick landed with an _Oof!_ in the rather springy seat of the old armchair. Bouncing back from his momentum, he tumbled off the front, instinctively catching his backward fall on the floor with his hands and flipping himself upright.

In all technicality, that should have worked.

But what Dick had failed to notice was that where his feet landed, there was a certain expensive Ming vase.

Both boy and pottery crashed into the ground, one merely dazed, the other shattering into a million pieces that skittered across the floor like ants within the space of two seconds.

For a moment, all Dick could think was "Ow." The breath had been completely knocked out of him upon contact with the chair. For a moment, he lay still, struggling to inhale, to exhale, to do anything. Finally, he gasped painfully like a fish out of water, struggling to fill his aching lungs with air.

"Master Dick, are you all right?" a familiar British voice cried as a concerned face swam into his vision. The elderly butler carefully helped the boy sit up, brushing blue and white shards off of Dick's clothes as he checked for any cuts or bruises.

Dick could do nothing more than stare in horror at the shattered pottery at his feet as he finally managed to breath normally. Oh no. Bruce—

"What's going on?" a voice demanded, causing Dick to involuntarily flinch. "What happened—" The voice stopped short, and Dick knew Bruce had seen the vase. Or what was left of it, anyway.

There was a tense silence, the echo of the crash repeating over and over in Dick's ears despite Alfred bustling around him. He turned to face his guardian, mouth opening in an attempt to apologize, but no sound came out.

Bruce's cobalt eyes were hard, his mouth set in a thin line. "Richard," he said, just a hint of a growl rumbling in the back of his throat. "Go to your room."

Dick's heart froze in his chest. He leapt to his feet, backing up several steps despite Alfred's warnings. And then he ran.

* * *

 

Dick collapsed on the bed, curling up with hands clapped over his ears as if to block out his own thoughts. This was it. Bruce was going to send him back. He just knew it.

Horrible memories of cruel laughing boys and starbursts of pain flashed through his mind, and he involuntarily whined. He couldn't go back. He wouldn't go back.

That meant there was only one thing to do.

Slowly, he lifted himself off the mattress, clutching his stuffed elephant, Elinor, tightly to his chest. His limbs felt like lead as he slipped over the edge and treaded softly over to the closet. Dragging open the door, he stared blankly at the already full duffel bag tucked into the back corner. He hauled it out, plopping down on the floor and allowing himself a quick peek inside—a faded red hoodie and the corner of an old photograph was visible in the small opening. Carefully zipping it shut once more, he got to his feet, slinging the bag over his shoulder.

Dick glanced swiftly around the room, taking in the various items Bruce had bought for him in the past several weeks. He didn't feel right bringing even one of them. After all, this wasn't his home anymore.

His heart sank as he recognized the fact that he'd known this would happen. It had only been a matter of time before he accidentally did something so unforgivable that his guardian would send him away.

His feet weighing down like wet wooden blocks, Dick staggered to the window.

He stared dejectedly out through the crystal, taking in the enormous manor grounds stretching out farther than he could see, the tree line starting thirty feet away and marching off seemingly forever into the distance.

His own reflection shone back at him in the glass. He took in the light brown skin, the red-rimmed eyes, the sniffing nose, and the hanging black bangs. No wonder Bruce didn't want him. He was nothing more than a gypsy boy locked in his haphazard and troublesome way of life until the day he died.

At least, that's what his social worker had said. Of course she had thought he wasn't listening at the time, but it didn't change the fact that it hurt.

With a heavy heart, he flicked the latch on the window, grunting in exertion as he pulled the mighty pane open. The panel slid upwards with a low creak of protest, as if unused to being opened for so long.

He shuddered involuntarily as a cool breeze whipped through the room, caressing his cheeks as if calling to him to come out.

Resigned to his fate, Dick shrugged the bag higher on his shoulders, lifting one leg over the windowsill.

He glanced longingly back into the room that he'd nearly called his for the past month or so. The bed curtains fluttered almost sadly in the night air, the shiny wood of his dresser shimmering in the moonlight. He mentally chastised himself at the ache that filled his heart. This had never been his room in the first place. So why did it hurt so much to leave it behind?

 _Because it's not the only thing you're leaving_ , a voice in his mind whispered.

He shook his head savagely. No. He couldn't afford to think like that. Bruce didn't want him anymore. There was no reason to stay.

Resigned to his fate, he lifted his other leg out of the window.

"Dick? What are you doing?"

Dick started at the sudden voice, his body jerking just enough for him to lose his careful perch on the windowsill.

He yelped in surprise, arms flailing as the duffle bag over his shoulder caused him to overbalance, falling the wrong way out the window.

A brief puff of fresh air, a glimpse of an upside down oak tree, and suddenly his fall jerked to a stop as something snatched his ankle.

Swinging like a pendulum, Dick barely resisted the urge to whine like a frightened puppy, turning his gaze up to see his guardian hanging halfway out the window as he clutched Dick's leg like a lifeline.

"Don't move," Bruce ordered, reaching out with his other hand to grab Dick's free leg. "I'm going to lift you up slowly, okay?"

An enormous lump of fear clogging his throat, Dick could only manage a small nod.

He felt himself being tugged, his back scraping lightly over the old brickwork of the house as limb by limb, Bruce pulled him up through the window.

The two collapsed on the floor, gasping for breath as Dick struggled to wrap his mind around what had just happened. Had he just fallen...again? His breath stuttered in his throat, hands reaching up to twist into Bruce's sweater.

The familiar weight of Bruce's arms immediately wrapped themselves over him, and he buried his head into the crook of his guardian's neck.

For a few moments, they just lay on the ground, Dick fighting to control his hitched breathing as Bruce merely held him, providing what little comfort he could.

When the boy's breathing finally slowed to a normal pace, Bruce carefully extracted the boy from his sweatshirt. "Why do we fall, Dick?" he asked softly. Maybe this time he'd actually get to answer it.

Dick sniffed, his eyes slightly damp as he wrinkled his nose in thought. Obviously his answer the first time hadn't been correct. "Because...because even Mother Nature needs a hug once in awhile?"

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Where do you come up with all these?"

Dick shrugged.

Bruce sighed, running a hand through his hair. "How about you add this one to your repertoire: so we can get back up again."

Dick blinked slowly. "Okay. What's 'repertoire' mean?"

Bruce considered the question. "A collection," he said finally.

Dick blinked yet again. "Oh. That makes sense."

Bruce quirked a smile. "Yep, that's what I thought." He stood up, ruffling the boy's hair. "Don't worry. You'll figure it out."

Dick shifted nervously from his crouched position. "Um...aren't you...you know, mad at me?"

Bruce blinked. That sounded familiar. "A little bit," he admitted.

Dick stared at the ground, dark bangs falling over brilliant blue eyes. "Oh."

There was a moment of silence.

"I'm so sorry, Bruce!" the boy blurted. "I didn't mean to, I really thought I could do it, and I just—"

"Whoa, buddy," Bruce interrupted, holding up a hand to stop the barrage of words. "It's okay. I forgive you."

Dick's head jerked upward, wide eyes staring owlishly up at him. "You—you do?"

Bruce gave him a small smile. "Of course I do. Alfred told me what happened. It was an accident. And I suppose I owe you an apology, too."

Dick was absolutely ogling him now. "Why?"

"For overreacting," Bruce explained. "It's just..." Now it was his turn to break eye contact. "It was one of my mother's favorite vases." The billionaire stared at his shoes, remembering his mother admonishing him for nearly destroying that very vase oh so many years ago with his brand new slingshot. A sad smile ghosted on the corners of his lips. He wondered if Dick would have gotten in the same sort of trouble if she were here to see the deed actually done.

Bruce himself had been raging mad until Alfred had forcefully told him to talk to Dick.

A small hand pulled at his pant leg, and he found himself staring down into those innocent blue orbs. "I'm sorry, Bruce," Dick whispered again, hugging his leg.

Bruce awkwardly patted his back, knowing that this apology had a far deeper meaning. "Me too, buddy. Me too."

After a moment, Bruce gently pulled the tiny chin up from his leg. "I don't want you doing anything like that again, okay?" he said sternly. "There are a lot of things in this house that will break very easily if given even the slightest push. The next time you disobey me _will_  be met with punishment. Is that understood?"

Dick nodded miserably. "Yes, sir. But..." He gulped. _But what about my acrobatics?_ He didn't know if he could stand it if he couldn't practice his tricks—at least the mostly grounded ones. It was one of the few things he had left to remember his parents (not bloody and broken) by.

"You know," Bruce said. "I do have a gym."

Dick's head swiveled up so fast, he almost got whiplash. He stared hopefully up into the emotionless cobalt eyes. "You do?"

Bruce nodded solemnly. "Yup."

Dick frowned thoughtfully. "Then why did we go to that other gym to...you know...with the trapeze?"

Bruce shrugged. "I don't have many aerial things up there at the moment. But that can change." He regarded the boy shrewdly. "I do have some uneven bars and rings, though. I don't suppose you'd like to use them sometime?"

Dick hardly dared ask for fear of rejection, but the weight of the possibility was too much to bear. "Can—can I...?"

Bruce smiled, his eyes twinkling in amusement. "Of course you can use it. You live here, don't you?"

Dick squealed in delight, leaping up and throwing his arms around his guardian's neck. "Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!"

Bruce chuckled into his ear, wrapping his arms around Dick's torso. "You're welcome, chum. Just make sure that the majority of the acrobatics stay in there, okay?"

"Yes, sir!" Dick crowed happily.

"Now," Bruce said, carefully putting the boy back down on the floor. "I just have one more question for you." A more serious expression came over his face as he pointed at something on the ground. "What's with the duffel bag?"

Dick followed his guardian's finger, flushing as he took in the sight of his ratty carry on. "Oh. That's...um...my stuff."

Bruce sent him a confused look. "Has it been in the closet all this time?"

Dick gave an uncomfortable nod.

Bruce considered chiding him for running away, since that's clearly what the boy had been intending. But a much more pressing question pushed to the forefront of his mind: "Why isn't it unpacked? There's plenty of room in your dresser."

Dick scuffed his foot on the ground, looking anywhere but his guardian. "It's...just in case...you don't want me anymore," he murmured.

Bruce's face contorted with an emotion Dick couldn't identify. "What?"

Dick shrugged one shoulder. "I know you took me in for the press," he said softly. "I'm a charity case. It's good for your image. And I'm not exactly the best kid in the world." He stared at his shoes. "I figured it's just a matter of time b-before...you get s-sick of me and..." He sniffed, fighting back the tears threatening to spill over his cheeks. "S-send me back to...to that place."

"Dick," Bruce said stiffly, and Dick involuntarily flinched. "Who told you that?"

Dick shrugged again. "The kids in Juvie. And some kids at the park yesterday. They also said something about being a bedwarmer." He looked up at Bruce. "What's a bedwarmer?"

The look of pure fury on his guardian's features caused Dick to take an involuntary step back. His heart thudded in his chest, and he quickly glanced away. Was Bruce angry with him for figuring him out? Was he going to take him back to the JDC? He didn't want to go back to the JDC.

Dick flinched as two hands landed lightly on his shoulders, Bruce getting on his knees so he was at Dick's level. "Dick. I need you to listen to me: I did not take you in because of the press, or even for charity. I took you in because I know what it's like to be in your position, to feel that kind of loss at such a young age. And I want to help you, Dick. I want you to be happy. Though you might not be the perfect child—and there is no such thing as a perfect child—I still care about you. I will never, ever send you back to the Juvenile Detention Center. I promise. Do you understand?"

Dick nodded slowly.

"I want to hear you say it," Bruce insisted. "I need to know that you understand."

Dick nodded again, a tear spilling over despite his best efforts. "Okay," he whispered.

Bruce pulled him into a hug, and Dick clutched him tightly, burying his face into the broad shoulder as the tears came in earnest.

"It's been one month," Dick whispered.

Bruce tensed slightly under his arms, then relaxed again, pulling him tighter against him. "I know, chum. I know."

"Does the pain ever go away?" he whimpered.

Bruce hesitated. Then, sighed heavily as he realized there would be no point in lying to the boy. "No, buddy," he admitted. "It never really does."

Dick let out a low cry, hiding his face deeper into the billionaire's shoulder.

"But it does get better," Bruce whispered, rubbing gentle circles into the boy's back. "You'll be okay, Dickie."

Dick sniffed into his sweater. "O—Okay." He finally pulled his face free, his eyes red and wet with tears. "Promise me you'll never leave me."

Bruce was taken aback by the question. "What?"

"Promise me you'll never leave me," Dick repeated. "I don't want to deal with this again. I don't want to lose you, too."

Part of Bruce was touched by the boy's sentiment. The greater part, however, completely panicked. As Batman, he couldn't guarantee that one night he wouldn't come back. Every patrol, every fight could be his last. He couldn't promise to a child that he wouldn't leave him if he wasn't sure of his own chances himself.

"Bruce?" came a tiny murmur, a small hand fisting itself in his shirt just over his heart.

Bruce hesitated. "You know I can't promise that, Dick," he said carefully. "I can't control..."

He trailed off at the utterly heartbroken and panicked expression on the tiny face as he stared up at him, betrayal clear in his tear-filled eyes.

Bruce sighed. "I promise, Dick."

The boy sighed happily before smashing his face in what was apparently his favorite crook of Bruce's neck, hugging Bruce tightly with both arms.

As Bruce returned the hug, he couldn't help wondering just what he'd gotten himself into with those three little words.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cross posted from Fanfiction.net.
> 
> Original publish date: 8-27-16

_4._

  
_One week later..._

_Gotham City_  
_May 8, 24:37 EDT_

Dick lay awake in his darkened bedroom, eyes fixed on the digital clock sitting on the table at his bedside.

 _12:37am_.

He had never been up this late before. Back in the circus, his parents enforced a strict bedtime to go along with the usual circus curfew of 11:30pm. With the exception of New Year's Eve and shows running behind schedule, Dick was to be tucked in his hay-smelling bed by 10pm at the latest. That had always annoyed him, seeing as the after show parties always seemed to start right after his bedtime.

The early bedtimes conditioned him so now—at least, normally—at any point after 11pm, he could barely keep his eyes open. But not tonight.

Because tonight was different. Tonight, there were no rules. Tonight was the night where Dick would begin his quest; his quest to avenge his parents' deaths. (He also may have drank three glasses of orange juice behind Alfred's back to ensure he wouldn't fall asleep; not to mention snuck a few sips of Bruce’s—pitch black—coffee. That stuff was _nasty_.)

The minutes dragged by terribly slowly. But Dick was patient. For this to work, he couldn't get caught.

 _12:45am_.

He hadn't heard any movement in the Manor for over two hours. That should be long enough.

Slowly, striving to make as little noise as possible, Dick slid out from under the sheets. He shivered slightly as his bare toes made contact with the cold floor before easing off the bed completely.

Not one sound. He couldn't make one sound.

First order of business: Ensure he wouldn’t be missed.

Kneeling on the floor, he dragged the two extra pillows he’d taken from the supply closet out from under the bed, hefting them onto the mattress and arranging them under the covers until they formed the approximate shape of a sleeping body when seen from the doorway. An old trick. But a good one.

Satisfied, Dick ghosted across the room, pulling the dark clothes he'd stuffed beneath his dresser (he'd had a bath that evening, which, of course, meant Alfred had dressed him) and shimmied out of his warm flannel pajamas to slither into the turtle neck and jeans, finally pulling on a ragged black hoodie.

He shivered as the chilled fabric brushed against his skin, sucking away what warmth had built up under his skin in the bed.

Now wasn't the time for discomfort.

Padding to the corner, Dick cracked open the door of his closet, crouching to slide the now nearly empty duffel bag from its confines.

Despite the fact Bruce had assured him he had no intention of ever giving him away, Dick couldn't help but keep his most prized possessions still tucked inside the flimsy bag. He was used to traveling, and thus accustomed to keeping his belongings packed up and ready to go for the next trip. As such, it was a very strange concept to him to be in the same place for more than a few weeks at a time, let alone a few months.

Unfortunately, Bruce didn't seem to understand this, appeared a little hurt even, when Dick elected to keep his more personal items like his stuffed elephant and the picture of his parents in the bag even after they’d unpacked his old clothing the week before.

Fingers trembling, Dick grasped the edge of the photo, holding it close to his face in order to see it clearly in the pale moonlight wafting between the curtains of the window.

The smiling faces of his mom and dad shown up at him, his own, slightly younger self perched between them, all three beaming at the camera. Unable to stand the pain as the gaping wound in his heart became suddenly piercing and fresh again at the sight of his parents, Dick gulped, centering his gaze on his own tiny form. Laughter danced in his eyes, a carefree expression he no longer saw in the mirror upon his miniaturized features.

This picture had only been taken a couple months ago, and yet it felt like years had passed. In fact, it was the first time he'd looked at this photo since...since Zucco caused the accident.

Tony Zucco.

Just the mention of the name made his blood boil.

Tony Zucco threatened Pop Haly. Tony Zucco poured acid on the wires of the trapeze. Tony Zucco killed his parents. Tony Zucco tore Dick's entire life out from under him like a dirty rug; trapped his wings so he was afraid to fly.

And for that, Zucco was going to pay.

Shaking himself out of his stupor, Dick carefully tucked the photo back into the duffle, rifling around for the object he'd come in search of. A few moments later, his hand closed around a flimsy piece of fabric.

He smiled grimly, lifting the item from the bag.

Carefully, he slipped the small domino mask into his pocket—a red, lensless performance piece that he had used for the big Halloween show last October—just in case.

Fighting back the twinge of pain in his chest at the memory, Dick clambered to his feet, replacing the duffel and shutting the closet before tiptoeing to the window. He glanced behind him, taking a moment to listen carefully for any sign his movements had been detected by one of the Manor's other occupants.

Nothing.

Satisfied he was safe, he swiveled his attention back to the window. Wrapping his fingers around the edge of the frame, Dick pulled and...the window didn't open. He frowned, pulling a little bit harder.

And that's when he noticed the shiny bit of metal glowing in the moonlight. Crouching down by the sill, he examined the round, disk-shaped new addition: It was a keyhole.

Dick frowned, faint anger and discomfort bubbling in his chest that he had been physically locked in his room; until he remembered that he had nearly fallen through that same window a week ago and Bruce had every right to want to keep a tighter lid on things.

Sighing, he dug around in his pockets, pulling two familiar objects from the confines, then angling himself by the lock.

It wasn't that hard, really. A bit of jimmying with the paper clip and a good twist with the nail file brought the brand new lock to its knees.

A small smirk quirked the corner of his mouth. _Thank you, Gordo_ , he thought quietly, ignoring the small ache as he recalled his burglaring-the-cookie-jar-and-other-assorted-objects lessons with the happy-go-lucky clown.

Swinging a leg out the now open window, Dick took a steady breath. The shadowy grounds of Wayne Manor stretched out below him, dark and menacing in the pale moonlight.

All right. No take backs. He could do this.

And with that thought, Dick hauled both legs over, positioning himself on the sill and carefully lowering himself down. The toe of his sneaker scrabbled at the wall, catching in a gap between the ivy. Giving it a harsh downward kick to make sure it wouldn't give way beneath him, Dick allowed his full weight to settle on the vine before stepping down with his other foot to find another hold. Within moments, his entire body was out of the window, clinging like a spider to the side of the Manor. Slowly, but surely, Dick worked his way down the wall, keeping his eyes fixed on the cracked bricks of the old mansion.

His foot slipped only once, a creeper giving way beneath his searching foot so that he listed to the right, heart leaping in his throat.

_Don't look down, don't look down, don't look down..._

Luckily, he found another foothold before his other leg fully slipped out of its own chink. The rest of the downward climb went without a hitch, and he let loose a shaky breath he hadn't known he'd been holding as his feet finally hit solid ground.

Glancing around instinctively to ensure he hadn't been noticed, Dick took a wide loop around the manor, jogging up the front lawn to reach the high barred fence that surrounded the property. Edging up to the iron-wrought gate, he typed in the security code—which he may or may not have memorized when he’d joined Alfred on the walk to get the mail—and slipped out onto the open road.

* * *

 

It was a two mile hike to the nearest bus stop. Whether it was adrenaline or sheer determination that kept him going to that point, he wasn't sure.

When the bus arrived, there was only one other passenger: a kindly faced elderly woman who kept shooting Dick curious, if not slightly worried glances from the backseat. Dick studiously ignored her, pushing his hood low over his eyes and slouching in his seat.

Several minutes later, the bus eased to a stop.

"Crime Alley," the driver called.

Dick's head jerked up. That sounded like as good a place to start as any.

But then, "That's me," the old lady said.

Flushing, Dick awkwardly avoided her gaze as she began to move down the aisle; only to nearly leap out of his skin as a hand gently grasped his shoulder. He jerked up, meeting concerned brown eyes staring down at him.

"Are you alright, sweetie?" asked the elderly lady. "Do you need help?"

"Er...no, ma'am," Dick stammered. "I'm fine."

She didn't believe him. He could see it in her eyes. Nevertheless, she smiled tightly, giving him a light pat. "Well, if you ever change your mind, my clinic is just around the corner." She pointed out the window into the alleyway. "Just ask for Leslie."

"Thank you, ma'am," Dick replied respectfully. "But I'm sure I'll be fine."

"I'm sure." Leslie gave him another small smile before finally continuing past him, exiting the bus from the front. Hesitating a moment, Dick let her continue a few steps down the alley before slipping out the side of the bus just as the doors began to close. He quickly pressed against the degraded wall of a closed convenience store, just in case the woman decided to glance back.

Despite the late (or was it early?) hour, Dick felt strangely rejuvenated, his blood pounding in his veins and cold sweat at the back of his neck from a combination of fear and excitement. This was it. The avenging of his parents started now.

Only...where should he start?

Dick took a moment to get his bearings. Despite the fact he'd been studiously pouring over any and all maps of Gotham City he could get his hands on for the past several weeks, everything looked so different up close and personal. And not necessarily in a good way.

The crumbling street was almost completely enveloped in shadow, the only meager light being cast from a distant street lamp and the occasional flickering neon. A hollow wind whistled between the buildings, giving the area an empty, haunted feel. As if the shadows would swallow him whole the first chance they got.

Licking his chapped lips nervously, Dick shook the silly notion from his head. Shadows didn't eat people...right?

Shivering, Dick examined the empty street, taking in the derelict storefronts and garbage that littered the streets.

Dick had never really been afraid of the dark. Apprehensive of it, maybe. Perhaps even a little nervous at times. But until he'd found his way onto the streets of Gotham—darkness cloaking every crack, every crevice, shifting in the flickering light of the lamp either from figures lurking in the shadows or Dick's own imagination, he wasn't sure—Dick had never found himself so truly, utterly terrified of the invading blackness of night.

Best action? Find light.

Dick skidded along the building his back was up against, starting as the rough texture of the bricks segued into something smooth and slippery—glass. Whirling around, he was almost instantly blinded by the soft light emanating from behind the window, a red and blue neon 'open' sign flashing in his eyes. Craning his neck upwards, he realized he was in front of a corner drug store.

Well. This was as good a place to start as any.

Stepping along the storefront, Dick pulled open the door leading inside, a tiny bell jingling above him as he crossed the threshold. The whole place stank of prescription drugs and cleaning chemicals, not a speck of dirt visible anywhere in comparison to the filthy street. Other than a bored, scraggly looking man reading the paper behind the cash register, the store was virtually empty.

Dick sucked in a breath, marching up to the counter, mentally repeating the same lines he’d been rehearsing in the mirror for days. He could do this.

"Excuse me, sir," Dick called, struggling to keep the quaver out of his voice. "Have you seen this man?" He held up his picture of Zucco for the shopkeeper to see. "He's my uncle, you see, and I was supposed to meet him—“

"Sorry, kid," the man interrupted, hardly glancing up from the page. "Never seen him before in my life."

"Oh," Dick said, slightly taken aback at the abrupt answer. "Well…thanks anyway."

Retreating from the store and back onto the street, Dick cast his eyes down the rows of dilapidated storefronts. Looks like he had a long night ahead of him.

* * *

 

The hours flew by, every person he ended up asking giving Dick essentially the same response. It was like Tony Zucco had just dropped off the face of the planet.

Dick briefly entertained the thought that Zucco had somehow procured a rocket and was now hiding out on the moon.

As he walked by the open storefront of an old clock store, he glanced at the time: 2:30am. He had never even come close to being up this late before. The initial rush of adrenaline that brought him this far was fading, his feet dragging against the dirt-caked pavement and head drooping as he stumbled toward the bus stop. Might as well call it a night and canvas the next five blocks tomorrow.

But just as the familiar blue sign came into view, a horrified scream rent its way through the cool night air. Dick froze, turning instinctively toward the sound.

The scream repeated, this time forming a word: "Help!" A woman’s voice.

Before his actions fully registered in his head, Dick was moving, adrenaline spiking so quickly his heart was pounding in his ears as he sprinted toward the source of the cry, jamming his red mask over his eyes as he ran. Turning a corner into a back ended alley, he screeched to a halt, taking in the horrific sight before him.

Five men surrounded a lone woman, trapping her cowering figure against the alley wall as yellowed teeth were bared in leering grins. Among the mass of limbs, Dick counted two knives, a baseball bat, and one gun.

He hesitated, a flicker of fear sparking in his chest. There were five of them and only one of him. They were armed, and all he had was his fists. Those weren't very good odds. A quick glance told him the thugs hadn't seen him yet, and he briefly entertained the idea of running the other way, maybe calling the cops.

But he didn’t have a phone or any spare change. And he couldn't just _leave_ her…

Desperately, Dick scanned the surrounding area, hoping to spot someone, anyone who might be able to help. Nada.

"Please," the woman whimpered, "I'll do anything!"

"Of course you will, sweetheart," one of the thugs sneered. The man sauntered toward her, pressing the blade of his knife against the woman's cheek. “In fact, you're gonna do a whole lot."

A bead of red appeared against the silver of the metal as the skin broke under the pressure.

"Oi!" Dick shouted, angered, stepping forward before he'd fully processed what he was doing. Six pairs of eyes swiveled toward him. "Why don't you pick on someone your own size?"

Heat rose to his cheeks. Of all the cliché things that could have come out of his mouth right then...

There was a beat of silence, the small group staring at Dick in surprise.

"Like who?” one of them called. “You? A stupid little kid running around in a mask, pretending to be a hero?” The guy’s buddies chortled, the instigator himself sneering as he dumped the contents of the woman's purse onto the ground. Cosmetic items rolled across the asphalt as the crooks laughed, pictures fluttering from a thin leather wallet as it opened against the ground.

One of the photos wafted down the alley, flipping face-up a few feet from Dick. It was a picture of the woman, one arm around a man and the other enveloping a little girl that looked a lot like her. All three were grinning at the camera, happy and content, like they didn't have a care in the world so long as they had each other.

Anger flooded Dick’s veins. His vision tinged red.

"Yeah," he said, in a hard voice that barely sounded his own. "Like me."

There was a brief moment of hesitation, during which the crooks' faces ranged from confused to downright amused.

"Well," the presumed leader said, sauntering a couple steps closer as his gang snickered behind him. "Don't say I didn't warn you, punk. Looks like you need a lesson in respecting your elders."

Despite the danger he was in, something in Dick shifted. Something snapped. Heat swelled beneath his skin, blood pounding in his ears as if screaming: _I'm alive! Let’s pound these creeps!_

And for the first time since the incident, Dick laughed.

His cackle echoed in the tiny alley, reverberating eerily off the brick walls and surrounding the occupants.

The criminal paused at Dick’s unexpected reaction, a spark of wariness shining in his eyes as he took a half-step backwards.

His hesitation proved to be his downfall.

Dick closed the space between them with a forward handspring, launching himself in a flip through the air and landing hard, feet first, on the villain's shoulders. The man cried out, his knees buckling beneath him at the sudden, unexpected weight.

Dick shot off as quickly as he had boarded, landing lightly on his feet behind the kneeling man. As the crook began to stand, Dick delivered a swift kick to his rear, sending him sprawling facedown on the pavement. Trotting around to the other side of the thug, Dick crouched down and wagging a small finger at the back of his head.

"It's bad to steal," he chided. "It's not very nice."

An angry yell echoed behind him, and Dick whirled around to see a second man stalking toward him in wild fury, teeth bared and knife glinting in the lowlight. “Why, you little—"

The crook stopped short as Dick's shoe met his mouth. Head cracking harshly against the wall, the potential mugger sank to the ground, unconscious.

Dick wasn't stupid. He knew he couldn't keep this up by himself, or even hope to beat five fully grown men single-handed. It was really only a matter of drawing their attention long enough for the woman to make her escape.

Glancing at said gawking woman, he mouthed, "Run!" as the three remaining goons fixed their attention on him.

Hesitating a moment, the woman nodded. She turned.

Thug number three hefted his baseball bat, drawing Dick's attention back to the now most pressing matter of the moment: His life.

Rapidly, his eyes darted around the alley. Dumpster, fire escape, rooftop.... Bingo.

"Catch me if you can!" he cackled, dodging the now swinging bat and ducking under another crook's reaching arms before sprinting toward the rusted fire escape on the opposite side of the alley. Somersaulting mid jump, Dick kicked off the lid of the old dumpster, latching his fingers on the bottom railing of the fire escape as the thugs behind him shouted in surprise.

While the crooks were stunned, Dick managed to heft himself onto the platform so he clung to the outer railing, fingers latching to the metal as he stepped onto the thin metal bar.

Then the leader (back in wheezing, slightly tottering action) screamed, "Get him!"

The thugs seemed to unstick as Dick stepped over the rail and bolted up the stairs. Halfway up the third floor, he heard a shout, followed by a loud _CLANG_. The entire fire escape shuddered.

Dick risked a quick glance down. The perps had pulled down the first flight of stairs that had been folded up against the bottom platform, one of them already toeing the first step. Fixing his attention back to his own feet, Dick barreled up the last two flights, trying to ignore the pounding steps growing closer and closer behind him. A bullet clanged off the railing right where his hand had been seconds before, and Dick’s heart leapt into his throat.

With a jerk, he rolled onto the gravelly rooftop, pausing six feet from the lip of the building. He whirled around to watch the rusted, red metal of the fire escape shake as his pursuers pounded upwards.

Wildly, he cast his eyes over the rooftop, searching for something that might serve as a weapon.

A glint of metal caught his eye, flashing in the thin moonlight. He lunged, fingers wrapping around an old, greenish copper pipe that might have once been used in someone's plumbing.

"Thank you, Mario," Dick muttered.

Gravel crunched behind him, and Dick whirled, rudimentary weapon raised and heart attempting to punch a hole out of his chest at the sight of the first goon straddling the lip of the roof.

He was moving before he'd fully processed what he was doing.

The man barely had time to sneer before Dick's pipe slammed into the side of his head. He dropped like a stone, sprawling awkwardly half on and half off the rooftop.

An angry grunt was heard just below, a voice growling, "What'cha stop for? Move your fat butt, Billy!"

The unconscious form of the first perp shifted as his companions shoved from below. Dick gripped his pipe tightly, waiting for a target.

Scraggly brown hair and a unibrow appeared over the roof's edge.

Dick hefted the pipe like a hammer, swinging downward to crack against the man's skull.

However, unlike the first perp, this one was a little quicker to the draw. The man ducked, the pipe only striking a glancing blow to his shoulder. With a grunt of pain, the mugger lashed out with his other arm, snatching the end of Dick’s pipe and yanking.

Already off balance from the lack of impact, even Dick’s superior balance didn’t stand a chance against gravity. He stumbled forward, dropping to his knees and falling half over the lip of the roof before he had the sense to release his end of the pipe. But it was too late. The third and final man—Dick recognized him to be the presumed leader of the crew—reached over his fallen companion and latched onto his arm, dragging him over the edge…and letting go.

Arms windmilling, Dick listed over the edge of the rooftop into open air.

No. No, no, no, no.... Not again.

The familiar feeling of weightlessness enveloped him, a feeling that had once meant ‘safety’; had once meant ‘freedom.’ But now, it only meant fear.

Despite the mind numbing terror rapidly overtaking him, Dick managed one thought: _I’m sorry, Bruce_.

Bracing for impact, Dick fixed his eyes to the sky, determined to keep them open…

And suddenly, a dark shadow erupted in the corner of his vision, blotting out the moonlight, growing larger and larger—closer and closer. Dick didn't even have time to scream before he was suddenly surrounded by the blackness, colliding with something hard as his fall segued into a swinging arc.

Within moments, the two hit pavement, the knees of the figure clutching him jarring slightly from the impact. Dizzily, Dick found himself staring up into two white holes glaring from the darkened features of his rescuer.

And then Dick was on the ground, kneeling in shock as his rescuer stood, the outline of a bat visible in the moonlight against the Kevlar-encased chest. And then the Batman shot a gun-shaped object into the air and flew at the crooks hanging off the end of the fire escape, gawking.

Not for long.

One of them yelled something, the words nearly lost to Dick’s ringing ears: “Gun him, Freddy!”

It was the cacophonous sound of the fire escape groaning from repeated impacts and the explosion of gunpowder from a gun firing that finally brought Dick back to the present as the fight traveled (rather, tumbled) back down to his level, limbs tangling, bullets flying.

Shaking his head violently, Dick forced the overwhelming fear from his mind. Batman needed help. He couldn't break down; not here, not now.

With a deep breath, he managed to push himself off the ground, somersaulting backwards to his feet. Just in time to watch the last crook and his punisher hit the pavement at his feet with a loud _CRACK_.

Well. So much for that idea.

Dick stared at the fallen perp. Then his eyes traveled to the triangular edges of the cape trailing on the pavement, following it up and up and up until he was gazing into the cowled face of Gotham’s protector.

For a moment, neither spoke.

“Um…” Dick tried. “Hi?”

The Bat remained impassive. Dick shifted uncomfortably as the silence stretched on, vaguely apprehensive as to what the vigilante would do to him. Fear flashed cold through his bones. What if he decided to tell Bruce about his little ‘adventure’? What if he didn’t even bother asking for an explanation and took him straight to the Juvenile Detention Center for imposing on his territory? What if—

“What do you think you’re doing out here?” Batman growled.

Dick barely resisted the urge to flinch. “Er…well…I’m…”

And then it hit him. Batman had been all over Gotham, right? Maybe he knew where Dick could find Zucco. “I’m looking for someone,” Dick managed, summoning his courage and digging in the pockets of his hoodie for the now slightly crumpled picture of Zucco. He showed it to the much taller figure. “Have you seen him anywhere recently? He’s my uncle, and I kind of need to—“

“Anthony Zucco,” the Bat interrupted, white lenses narrowing into a terrifying glare. “Don’t lie to me, boy. What business do you have tracking down criminals in the middle of the night?”

Anger sparked minutely in Dick’s mind, and he barely restrained himself from retorting: “I could say the same to you.”

“But…” he spluttered instead, helplessly. However, before he could frame a more appropriate response, a flicker of motion caught his eye in the shadows behind the Bat.

Dick froze.

One of the thugs—the one who’d dumped the purse—had regained his feet at some point, and was now creeping up behind the seemingly unsuspecting Batman, expression murderous and pocket knife raised.

"Look out!" Dick warned, springing forward without a second thought. Kicking off the wall and into the air, Dick soared over the Bat, snagging the shoulders of the perp and using his momentum to propel the man backward; Dick’s feet hit the pavement, and swinging his arms, the thug continued his path straight up and over Dick’s head, slamming face first into the grimy alley floor.

The man lay silent, unmoving; out for the count.

Dick quickly made sure he would _stay_ down—he'd made that mistake only once in juvie—before turning his back on the crook. Batman still stood behind him, his features ever impassive as his eyes bored into Dick's.

There was a tense silence; Batman's gaze never wavered.

"What?" Dick demanded finally, self-conscious.

One gauntleted hand extended in his direction. “Give me the mask.”

Oh. He had forgotten he was even wearing it. After a moment, he reached up, slowly peeling the mask from his skin. However, once it was off, he hesitated, staring down at the bright red domino in his hands. He swallowed; looked up. “I’d rather keep it, if you don’t mind.”

The Bat’s eyes narrowed.

“It’s from my—my parents,” Dick admitted, casting his eyes to the ground, hands fisting around the fabric. “I would like to keep it, if you don’t mind.”

Dick didn’t dare look up, feeling the Bat’s eyes on him as he fought with everything he had not to fidget.

Finally: ”Go home, Richard.”

Despite the shutdown, Dick couldn’t help the flicker of relief in his heart. "Okay."

He stuffed the mask into his pocket, moving to do just that.

“I don’t want to see you out here again. Understood?” Not a question.

Dick deflated. “Yes, sir.”

* * *

 

Retracing his steps to the Manor was somehow harder than when Dick had first made them.

Every step dragged, his body screaming exhaustion and limbs uncoordinated and heavy at his sides. Every step screamed failure.

Nevertheless, he somehow made it back to his bedroom, tiredly pulling on his discarded pajamas, dragging the dummy pillows down onto the floor, and crawling into the silky covers of his enormous bed, struggling to swallow the bitter pill of disappointment at his own uselessness.

A fierce resolve overcame him. He wasn’t going to stop. No matter what that Batman said, he was going to find Zucco and bring him to justice. Who did Batman think he was, anyway, bossing Dick around like he was his guardian, or something?

However, exhaustion pressed in on him, his eyelids drooping despite the defiance raging in his mind.

As he finally sank into the arms of sleep, one last thought drifted through his mind: _How does Batman know my name?_

 

* * *

 

Minutes later, a shadowy figure crept onto the boy’s windowsill, peering in at the slight lump curled under the covers, ensuring that the figure moved with a person’s breath.

It did.

Outwardly, Batman remained stoic. Inwardly, Bruce sighed.

What had he gotten himself into?

**Author's Note:**

> Chapters will get progressively longer.


End file.
